


Carrying the Banner

by Horatio13



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Newsies, Gen, Title from the Broadway Musical, You don't need to know the musical for this though, basically they're all impoverished children who sell newspapers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29292912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horatio13/pseuds/Horatio13
Summary: After running away from his drunken father, twelve-year-old William Murdoch finds a way to survive on the brutal streets of Toronto: selling newspapers. He befriends a ragtag group of young newsies, and they become a paper-hawking family.When a local businessman goes missing, the gang takes it upon themselves to unravel the mystery, if only to get their hands on that handsome reward money.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	1. The Newsboy

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was listening to Newsies and this idea decided to smash into my brain at high velocity such that I couldn't not write this.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

William Murdoch straightened his vest, looking in both directions as he dug his hands into the trash can. He shivered. Winter in Toronto was always cold and miserable, but he normally at least had a jacket. His fingertips burned, sticking out of his worn out gloves.

There was nothing in the trash but newspapers and paper bags. He’d been hoping for scraps of an unfinished meal, the crust of a slice of bread, perhaps.

He pulled out one of the newspapers from the top of the pile. He glanced at the front page headline, a story about the closing of a large bank branch. It didn’t interest him. He glanced at the classified section, looking at all the jobs he was far too young and unqualified for.

His eyes happened to glance at the top of the page, and he stopped dead as he noticed the date: January 16, 1875.

January. _January._ He shook his head. Had he really been living on the street for a month now?

“Hey, kid!” The fat butcher stood in the doorway of his store. “Beat it! You’re scaring off my customers!”

William didn’t have to be told twice, and he scampered off, letting the paper flutter to the ground. He ducked behind a pile of crates in an alleyway a few blocks away, hugging himself to keep out the cold.

A month. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It had really been a month ago when his sister had run off to join a convent somewhere, a month since his father had sent William to fetch a bottle of liquor and William hadn’t ever come back.

It didn’t feel like a month had passed. It didn’t feel like a _week_ had passed. Every day was the same: he’d wake up in an alley somewhere, try all day to find loose coins or something to eat, and then fall asleep in another alley.

His teeth chattered. It really was cold. He was surprised his fingers hadn’t frozen solid and fallen off. He cupped his hands and blew hot air into them, watching his clouds of breath rise into the air.

Something shone on the ground next to him, and he lashed out to grab it. _Please be a fifty cent piece,_ he prayed. He was immediately disappointed when he found that it wasn’t a quarter, nor was it valuable currency, but it was merely a shiny silver button. He pocketed it nonetheless. Perhaps he’d be able to trade it for something.

His ears perked up at the sound of yelling. Cautiously, he shuffled out of his hiding place and peeked out the end of the alleyway.

On the street corner, waving his hands madly, stood a boy, younger than William, with brown hair tucked under a brown flat cap. He leaned heavily on a beat-up wooden crutch. Around his shoulders hung a heavy sack stuffed full of newspapers. The boy waved a paper in the air. “Extra, extra! Hundreds die in a disastrous train accident! You won’t believe the carnage!”

A handful of people pressed coins into his hands and he passed them paper after paper, tipping his hat with a smile.

William frowned. When he’d seen the paper, there hadn’t been any story about a train accident. It was still early, the afternoon edition hadn’t even started printing yet. Curiously, he inched closer to get a better look.

The newsboy smiled at a lady walking past. “You look lovely this morning, ma’am!” he said. “By far the prettiest lady on the block.”

The woman giggled, waving her hand. “Stop it,” she said. She bought a paper.

William stood entranced, watching every sale like a tiger stalking its prey. In his pocket, he ran his fingers around the few spare coins he had.

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, someone sprinted out from an alleyway, a second boy, about twice the newsboy’s size, with a head of carrot-coloured hair. He made a beeline for the newsboy and pounced, knocking them both to the ground. The wooden crutch clattered to the pavement as the red-haired boy clambered on top of the younger one, punching and pounding him with his fists. The smaller boy curled in around himself, shielding his head.

The scene was attracting a small but engaged audience. Women watched in horror while men watched with morbid interest, as if they were watching a horse race and had money on the redhead to win.

William couldn’t look away, as much as he wanted to.

It almost seemed like the bigger boy would crush the smaller to a pulp when a constable rushed over. “Oi!” he yelled, wrapping his arms around the red-haired boy to restrain him. “Get off him! He’s had enough!”

The boy twisted out of the policeman’s grip and took off down the street.

The newsboy uncurled slightly, coughing.

“You alright, lad?” the constable asked kindly, kneeling down to help the boy sit up.

The newsboy nodded, stumbling to his feet. His knees knocked together like a newborn deer.

The copper shoved the crutch underneath him, brushing off the boy’s vest. “There we are,” he said. “No harm done.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the boy.

The constable smiled, digging around in his pockets. “Say, how much for a paper?”

“Three cents.”

“Here.” The constable passed him a folded up bill. “One dollar. Keep the change,” he said.

William’s eyes widened. A _bill._ A real, actual dollar bill. He’d only seen bills a few times in his life, and those had usually been twenty-five cents. He’d never seen a whole dollar in one place before.

The newsboy stared at the bill with huge eyes. “Thank you, sir!” he cried, stuffing the bill in his pocket as quick as a jackrabbit.

The constable walked off, tipping his helmet.

William watched him leave, then glanced at the newsboy. He found his feet taking him closer and closer until he was right behind the boy.

“Extra! Extra! Fire breaks out in Parliament! Prime Minister Mackenzie loses an arm!”

“That’s not true,” William found himself saying.

The newsboy jumped, whirling around in surprise. He was about a head shorter than William was, but he squinted so viciously that William was intimidated. “What’d you say, Nitwit?”

William cleared his throat. “That’s not what the headline says,” he said. “It’s about a bank closing.”

The boy put his free hand on his hip, glaring. “You think a bank closing is going to sell papers?”

“So you’d lie just to make money?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Scram,” he said. “You’re losing me customers.” He whirled around again.

“No please!” William moved in front of him. “How do you get to be a newsboy?”

The boy snorted. “First off,” he said. “We’re called _newsies._ Second, you don’t _get_ to be a newsie. When you don’t have any more money and no more food, and you’re fresh out of options, that’s when you’re a newsie.” 

“Well, where do you get the papers?”

The boy squinted at him. “You buy them,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They sell them out back behind the printing house. Two cents each."

William fiddled in his pocket, producing his small collection of coins. "I've got sixty three cents," he said. "So I suppose I'll just buy thirty…" he trailed off. "What?"

The boy was staring at him like he had just sprouted wings. "Are you stupid or something?" The way it was asked made it clear that this wasn't a taunt, but a genuine question.

"No."

The boy shook his head. "They don't buy back what you don't sell. It's the stupidest idea in the world to spend all your money on papers that you can't even sell."

William blinked. "They don't teach you things like that in school."

"Right," scoffed the boy. "Like you'd know. I bet you’ve never even caught a whiff of a school."

"For your information, I was top of my class last term." Any chance he could get on a level above this boy, William would take it.

The boy’s eyes widened. “You’ve really been to school?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

His face screwed up in thought. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

William nodded.

The boy sucked in his cheeks. “Alright,” he said. “You want to be a newsie?”

William nodded again.

“Meet me here at nine o’clock tonight.”

“What?”

“Nine o’clock, tonight.” The boy waved his hand. “Now beat it.” He waved his hands, hollered to the crowds about fake, sensational headlines, and ignored William’s attempts at conversation.

After a while, William took the hint and left. He spent the remainder of the day going through his usual routine of digging through garbage cans, but his mind was elsewhere.

He smiled. He wouldn’t have to do this tomorrow. No more searching the trash for stale morsels or scanning the pavement for coins. Tomorrow, he’d have a job. He’d be a newsie.


	2. Sir

That evening, William dutifully waited at the street corner. Night had fallen to reveal a sky full of stars. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shivering. The late night wind was bitterly cold, and it stung his cheeks and made his eyes water.

His stomach groaned. Earlier, he’d managed to find half of a burned loaf of bread in the garbage behind the bakery. He’d saved most of it in his pocket. He ripped off a handful of bread and popped it in his mouth. It was cold and stale, but it was still the most nourishing thing he’d eaten in days.

The sound of cruel, taunting laughter echoed from down the street, growing steadily louder. A small crowd of boys came running out of an alley, carrying armfuls of rotten vegetables. In front of them, sprinting like a startled rabbit was a small boy carrying a stick in his hand. He ducked and swerved to avoid the onslaught of rotting cabbages and tomatoes coming his way.

As he got closer, William recognized him as the newsie from earlier, but something was different. William blinked as he realized that the boy was _running_ , carrying not a stick, but his crutch.

He didn’t have time to think about this though, because right at that moment, the boy noticed him, calling “follow me!” as he streaked past.

William did as he was told and chased after him. It was no easy task. The boy was as agile as a hunted deer. He ducked in and out of alleys, hurdling over crates and boxes.

After a minute or two of running, the mob’s wicked laughs grew softer until they disappeared entirely.

William caught his breath, peeking around the wall of an alley. He swallowed, glancing around. The newsie was nowhere in sight. He cleared his throat. “Hey!” he called. “They’re gone!”

A little, cold hand grabbed his, and William had to stifle an alarmed yelp.

The kid pulled him further into the alley, his grip painfully tight. He paused for a minute, listening hard. “Okay,” he said. “Coast is clear.”

“Who were those guys?” William asked, pulling his hand loose and rubbing his wrist.

“Jerks.” The boy spun his crutch. “They sell the Globe. They think they’re the best because they work for the best selling paper.”

“Why don’t you sell the Globe?”

“They charge three dollars for a hundred papers,” said the kid. “I can’t afford anything like that. If I’m lucky, I get seventy five cents a day.”

To William, who’d spent the last month living off of pennies and the occasional dime, seventy five cents a day was a fortune.

“Alright,” said the boy, beckoning William to follow him. “I’ll take you to Sir and I’ll try to get him to let you hang around us, but if he says no, I can’t do anything.”

“Who’s Sir?”

The boy sighed, tucking his crutch under his arm. “You’ll find out.” He waved his hand, jumping on top of a pile of crates leaning against a wall. “C’mon.” He started climbing.

“Hang on!”

The newsie glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

William folded his arms. “I don’t even know your name, and you’re expecting me to just follow you everywhere you go?”

The newsie blinked. “It's not like I know _your_ name.”

Sighing, William conceded. He clumsily clambered on top of a crate.

The boy held up a finger. “George,” he said.

“What?”

“That’s my name.”

“I’m William.”

“That’s too long,” said George, tapping his chin. “Can I call you Willy?”

“No.” William’s father used to call him Willy. He hated it.

“Bill?”

“Can’t you just call me William?”

George rolled his eyes. “Sir will have to get you a better name.” He said.

William couldn’t understand what was wrong with his own name, but he let the matter drop.

Climbing the pile of crates proved rather cumbersome. William had no idea how George did it so quickly and easily, scampering his way up like a squirrel and leaping onto the roof of the building, all with a crutch tucked under his arm.

William, on the other hand, struggled to maintain his balance on the structurally unsound pile of boxes. “So,” he said, to make conversation. “How come you need a crutch to stand up straight but you can run up a pile of crates like it’s nothing?”

From the rooftop, George snorted with laughter. “You really are stupid, aren’t you?” he giggled.

William pulled himself onto the rooftop. His eyebrows furrowed. “That wasn’t real, earlier, was it?” he asked. “You were just pretending to need a crutch.”

George snapped his fingers. “Bingo!” He got to his feet and walked across the roof.

Shuffling after him, William frowned. “But why?”

“Why do you think?” asked George, taking off his cap and flipping it backwards. “There’s plenty of folks who think they’re doing a good deed by buying a paper from a poor, crippled kid.” He reached the end of the rooftop and turned to face William. “My crutch sells fifty papers a week all by itself.” He backed up to the very edge of the roof, smirked, and fell backwards off of the top of the building.

William yelped in shock, rushing to glance over the edge.

George laughed, lying on his back in a pile of leafy carrot tops and potato peels. “You should see your face!” he cried, sliding down the pile of compost.

William was relieved that he hadn’t just witnessed a kid kill himself, but he still felt a rush of anger. He slid off the roof and landed in the compost pile. “That was a mean trick.” He glared at the boy. “Besides, what if that pile wasn’t there? You could have hurt yourself.”

George shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Where do you think I got the crutch from in the first place?”

William’s eyes went wide. There was something so _odd_ about hearing something like that coming out of the mouth of a tiny little kid, but since George had moved on, he let it drop and dashed after him.

The two of them made their way along the streets, climbed up a fence, walked along a wall, and eventually, dropped back onto the ground in a bustling part of town. George seemed to prefer being high up.

“C’mon,” said George, motioning around a corner. “Over here.” He led William behind a row of buildings. The boys passed a few drunk patrons smoking cigars behind the pub. William screwed his gaze forward and avoided eye contact while George waved to them, saying, “Evening, gents!”

Several of them tipped their hats to him with a lopsided grin.

The boys reached a dead end, and George pointed to an empty police wagon, the kind that’s used to transport criminals to prison. “C’mon,” he waved, climbing on top of the back and shimmying onto the roof. From the roof of the wagon, he stepped onto a windowsill, grabbed the top of the roof and pulled himself up.

William was impressed. It didn’t seem like climbing like that should be possible. He glanced at the police wagon. “Is this a police station?” he asked.

George peeked over the rooftop. “Yeah,” he said. “Station House Number Four or something.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

William clumsily followed, repeating George’s actions, his foot nearly slipping on the window. His fingers burned from the cold. When he pulled himself onto the roof with shaking hands, he gazed around in awe. “Whoa,” he breathed.

The rooftop overlooked the Toronto streets, sleepy and quiet in the nighttime air. The snowflakes gently fell around him. The view was a perspective he’d never seen before.

“Neat, huh?” George smiled. “Welcome to the best place on earth!”

In the middle of the rooftop, a cluster of blankets and pillows lay on the ground. Stacks of boxes surrounded them, with a broken wooden door laying on top of them, making a makeshift shack.

William looked around. There was no one to be seen. “Isn’t someone supposed to be here?” he asked. “Sir, right?”

George sat on the edge of the rooftop, letting his legs dangle off the edge. “He’ll be off getting supper,” he explained. “Probably just a couple minutes.”

It was another half an hour later when a meaty hand reached over the edge of the roof and a tall, burly boy with red hair climbed up. “Oi,” he called, his accent broad and foreign to William. “Bugalugs, you there?”

George leapt to his feet. “Sir!” He grinned, waving his hands. “I made four dollars today!”

The tall boy, Sir, as George called him, stared at him in amazement. “That’s a two dollar profit, how’d you manage that, Sunshine?”

George told him about the constable who had helped him after he got beat up. “He gave me a whole dollar just for getting knocked down.”

Sir smirked. “See?” he said, lifting the younger boy’s cap and ruffling his hair. “All thanks to me.” His face sobered. “I didn’t hit you too hard, though, right? I was trying to be gentle, but you really looked like it hurt.”

George nodded. “I’m a good actor.”

“That you are.”

William blinked. “You’re the boy who beat him up earlier?”

Sir glared at him, folding his thick arms across his barrel-like chest. “Who’s this?” he asked.

William held out his hand. “William Murdoch,” he said.

"I told him you'd give him a better name," whispered George.

Sir squinted, stepping closer. “I don’t care what your name is, Peewee,” he hissed. “I want you off my roof.”

George, looking like a shrimp next to Sir, tugged at the hem of his shirt. “I invited him,” he said. “He wants to be a newsie.”

“Not my problem,” said Sir. “And you—” He looked sternly at George. “Stop inviting chumps over. This is a good place, we don’t need every kid for three miles trying to take it over.”

The kid shrunk down a little.

William took a small step back. “Please,” he said. “I won’t bother you, I promise. I just need someone to show me how it’s done, and then I can get out of your hair.”

Sir glowered down at him. “Then find some other newsie to help you. Get off my roof and lay off of Crabtree here. Don’t go filling his head with your stupid ideas.”

“He’s gone to school!” cried George. “He’s smart!”

Sir hesitated, glancing down at George.

The kid stared back at him with wide, puppy dog eyes.

He turned his steely gaze back to William. “Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Go on.” Sir waved his hand. “You’ve been to school, eh? What’s six times twelve?”

“Seventy-two.” William took a moment to remember the correct answer.

Sir squinted, the gears in his mind whirring furiously as he tried to come up with the answer himself. “Can you read?” he asked after a moment.

William nodded.

Pausing in thought, Sir glanced from William to George. “Fine,” he said. “You can stay. But only until you learn the ropes. You’re on your own after that.”

“Yes!” George grinned, elbowing William in the ribs. “You’re one of us now,” he said with a grin.

William smiled, but silently wondered if he had just jumped into a deep pool of water with weights tied to his feet.

Supper that night was short and awkward. Sir passed George two apples and a fist-sized hunk of cheese. He apologized that it wasn't much. “I was late to the soup kitchen,” he explained. “I had to improvise.”

"It's okay," smiled George. "I like apples."

William ate the rest of his burnt loaf of bread.

George quickly fell asleep after he finished eating, curled up under the door. Sir smiled slightly, pulling a blanket over him. He noticed William watching, and his face hardened again. “I’m all that little kid has.” He pointed a thick finger at William. “If you ever make him cry, I’ll punch your lights out.”

Nodding, William sucked in a deep breath. “Why does he call you Sir?” he asked.

Sir breathed an almost chuckle. “He’s funny that way,” he said.

“So… what do I call you? What's your name?” This question earned William a sharp glare.

“Brackenreid,” he said. “But you can stick with Sir.”

“Okay." William blinked. "...Sir," he added after a moment.

Brackenreid eyed him with a narrow gaze, his arms crossed. “Don’t disappoint me, Chump,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to lose letting you in here, and I can’t afford you to be a disappointment.”

William nodded quickly. He wouldn’t dream of it. He’d seen what Sir Brackenreid could do when he wasn’t trying to hurt someone. He wasn’t keen on finding out what he was like when he really wanted to do some damage.

Once Brackenreid was asleep, William pulled out a blanket, setting up his bed a few feet away from the others. He didn’t want to overstep his boundaries. He gazed up at the starry night sky.

It felt odd being so close to other people. It felt like ages since he had properly spoken to anyone, and now he was part of a group, sort of. It was strange, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

 _Well,_ he thought. _At least sleeping here is a little warmer._ He nodded off to sleep, staring up at the stars, eager to start the next day.


	3. Malcolm Brown

William stood at a street corner, holding a newspaper high in the air. “Newspapers!” he called. “Sir Oliver Mowat wins the election!” He cleared his throat. All this yelling was starting to rub his voice raw. “Liberal victory for the second term in a row!”

The clock bells rang, ten tolls echoing through the streets.

William sighed, glancing at the handful of papers he still had in his bag. Brackenreid and George had both warned him not to buy too many before he got the hang of it, or he wouldn’t make a profit. He’d bought thirty papers. So far, after two and a half hours of yelling and waving on a street corner, he’d sold nine.

“Hey! Hey!” A little voice called from across the street, accompanied by a waving hand. George Crabtree hobbled over, supporting himself on his fake crutch. An empty paper bag hung around his shoulders. “How’s selling going?” he asked. “What’s your profit?”

William showed him his surplus papers. “Forget profit,” he said. “I can’t break even.”

“This is a pretty good spot,” frowned George. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just calling out the headline.”

George giggled. “Here,” he said, planting his foot on the ground and lifting one of the papers high in the air. “Watch a _real_ newsie do it.” He took a deep breath. “Election ends in disaster!” he cried. “Sir Oliver Mowat wins by default after his opponent dies in a freak explosion!”

“George!” William cried, glaring at him. “That is _not_ what happened!”

“I’m a businessman,” said George dismissively. “Not a reporter. Look.” He pointed to five or six people crowding around them. “You have customers.”

William passed out papers while George collected funds. “See?” he said, holding out a handful of coins. “Twelve cents in one go.”

“We should just work together,” said William. “You can attract customers, I’ll give them their papers.”

George shook his head. “I’m not splitting my hard-earned cash. Besides,” he said. “You have to learn how to do it by yourself. You aren’t always going to have me around to sell your papers for you.” He suddenly jabbed William in the gut with his elbow.

“Ow!”

“Shh!” He pointed to an old lady across the street. “You want to sell to her,” he said.

“Why?”

“She’s a tipper.”

“How can you tell?”

George shrugged, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the woman. “Old, for starters. Judging by the high-crowned feather bonnet and the bustle skirt, she’s rich.”

William glanced at him sideways, but decided not to ask why he had such a detailed description of a woman’s outfit.

“Plus,” George went on. “She’s wearing widow’s black, which means she’s probably in a sentimental mood.” He winked with a smirk, adjusting his crutch under his arm. He snatched up a handful of newspapers and tucked them into his bag. “Watch this.” He adopted a hunched posture, hobbling out across the street towards the old lady. “Excuse me, ma’am?” he asked, his voice hoarse and weak sounding. “Do you have the time?”

The old lady looked at him with wide, doey eyes. “Quarter past ten, dear,” she said.

“Oh, thank you,” said George, pretending to stumble. “I can’t read the numbers on the clock, but I can’t be late or else Mr. Barnaby will cane me again. But I still have all these papers left…”

George went on with some sob story or another, but William had stopped paying attention. The wind had blown a newspaper out of his hand, and he had to chase it down. He stepped on the corner of it to stop it from moving. As he stooped down to pick it up, an article in the paper caught his eye. He examined it closer.

 _Malcolm Brown Missing,_ it read. William skimmed through the article. Apparently, Malcolm Brown was a rich businessman who’d made a fortune from investments in glue. The article was accompanied by a fuzzy photograph of a skinny man with a thin moustache, Malcolm Brown himself. According to the article, he’d gone missing two days ago in the wake of fraud allegations, and his family was offering a $200 reward for any information on his whereabouts.

William lowered the paper in awe. Two hundred. _Two hundred dollars._

It wasn’t just the money that attracted William’s attention, though, admittedly, that was a major factor. There was something so intriguing about a mystery like this. It was like Malcolm Brown both existed and didn’t. He was somewhere, but he didn’t seem like he was anywhere, at least until someone found him. That fascinating liminal quality of the story captivated William’s mind.

“And that’s how it’s done.” George tossed a shiny fifty cent coin in the air.

“What?” William blinked, still in shock. The things you could do with two hundred dollars…

George crossed his arms, pouting. “You weren’t even watching!”

“Look at this,” William shoved the paper in George’s face.

“Wow, a newspaper,” he mumbled sarcastically. “I _never_ see those.”

“No, no.” Stabbing his finger at the article, William read the headline out loud. “Malcolm Brown is Missing,” he said.

“And I'm supposed to care about that?”

“Look!” William pointed. “There’s a reward for information about him. Two hundred dollars!” He folded up the paper. “George, think about it. Two _hundred_ dollars.”

George blinked, eyes bulging with imagined riches. He glanced at his ratty old shoes. They were worn through in places, the sole lifting up like a dog’s tongue. His toes found the holes in his socks and his fingers poked through the tear in his pocket. He bit his lip, shaking the fantasy out of his head. “Well, maybe if you sell all your papers every single day for the next fifty years and never bought anything, you might have a quarter of that much.”

“You don’t understand,” William shook his head. _“We_ could get the reward money. We could find out what happened to him.”

“How are we supposed to figure out what happened to him?”

William blushed slightly. “I’ve read mystery stories,” he said. “I know how detectives think. I know how to solve mysteries like this.”

George breathed a laugh. “Even if we do figure it out, they aren’t going to give two hundred dollars to a couple of kids.”

“Why not?” William opened the paper again. “‘A two hundred dollar reward will be offered to any person with valuable information on the whereabouts of Mr. Brown.’ See?” He pointed. “It says _any person.”_

“We’re not people,” George pointed out. “Not to them.”

William sighed. “With two hundred dollars, you could achieve anything you wanted! Don’t you have any dreams, George?”

A blotchy beet-red blush spread on George’s cheeks. His eyes met the sidewalk. “I want to be an author.”

“And with two hundred dollars, you could.”

George pondered this for a minute. William sold a paper while he sat there in silence. Eventually, he shifted his weight onto his crutch. “Alright,” he said. “Where do we start looking?”

The boys spent the next few minutes scouring the article for clues in between hawking papers. Within half an hour, they had emptied William’s bag, and they had set off towards Malcolm Brown’s office, which, according to the newspaper article, was on the corner of Cecil and Spadina.

George limped along, looking uncomfortable. “We’re not supposed to be around here,” he said as the two of them walked up Spadina. “The newsies around here don’t like us trespassing on their territory.”

“We aren’t selling anything.” William glanced at the street signs. “We’re just walking.”

“All the same.” George shuddered. “We should try to get out of here as quickly as possible. You don’t know the Kensington newsies. They’re capable of anything.”

They found Malcolm Brown’s office easily enough, it was the only office space surrounded by various shops of different varieties. There was a handsome painted sign above the door that read: _Brown and Co_ and a smaller sign hung in the window that said _Open_ in big red letters.

George nicked two apples from a fruit stand as they walked past, shoving one into his pocket and taking a big bite out of the other. “We found it,” he said through a mouthful of fruit. “What now?”

“We look for clues.” William reached for the door handle.

George grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him backwards. “Are you insane?” he asked. “We can’t go in there.”

“Why not?” asked William, gesturing towards the window. “It says it’s open.”

“Yeah, open for rich people, not some bums off the street.”

William looked at him sternly. “George,” he said. “Just because we live on the street and because we’re kids doesn’t make us any less important than anyone else.”

George laughed. “Tell that to the world.” He took another bite from his apple.

“The world doesn’t own us.”

Chewing and swallowing, George conceded. “Fine,” he said. “It’s your funeral if we get caught.”

The boys opened the door and climbed up the staircase. Their footsteps against the wooden stairs echoed through the empty corridor, accompanied by the hollow thud of George’s crutch against the steps and the scraping sound as he dragged his leg.

William glanced at George. “No one’s here,” he said. “You can stop limping.”

“I try to stay in character.” George finished his apple and shoved the core in his pocket.

William sucked in a breath, widening his eyes in slight annoyance as they continued up the stairs. Reaching the top, they found a door with a big glass window with the words: _Malcolm Brown, Investor_ printed on the glass.

William raised his fist.

“Don’t—” George sucked in his cheeks. “Sorry.”

William knocked on the door.

The boys waited in silence. William tapped his foot and George had to hold his breath to keep from hyperventilating.

“No one’s there,” said William, putting his hand on the doorknob.

George cringed, as if he was afraid something might explode the moment they opened the door.

Rolling his eyes, William turned the handle, pulling open the creaking door.

The office inside was well furnished. Plush sofas lined the walls and potted ferns sat in the corners. A rich red rug lay on the floor, decorated with intricate gold and blue flourishes, a golden fringe all around it like the mane of a lion. The desk was made of a deep reddish wood, maybe mahogany, and there was a giant framed portrait of a young man with a moustache. He looked just like the blurry photograph of Malcolm Brown from the newspaper article.

William stepped inside, gazing all around him. “We should check his desk,” he said. “There might be something of importance there. You can look in the bureau drawer over there—” He glanced at George, who was still standing in the doorway.

George’s fingers gripped his crutch so tightly that his knuckle turned white. He swallowed, looking at the floor, not daring to put even a toe into the room. “Um…” he said. “Maybe I should keep watch? Out here? What if someone comes in?”

“Fine.” William moved towards the desk, lifting up loose papers on the top of it and reading the notes.

George flinched, letting out a strangled gasp as he pulled open a drawer and rifled through its contents. “If anybody saw you…” He shuddered. “You’d be dead or at least arrested for breaking and entering.”

“I haven’t broken anything.” William pulled a blue notebook out of a pile and flipped through it. “And technically, I haven’t entered illegally either. The sign on the door says this office is open.” He held up the folder. “These are his business records. It’s a list of everything Malcolm Brown has ever invested in.” He paged through the book. “The glue factory, a bridge over the Don River, wow, electric lights…” He glanced up. “Wait, I’ll bet…” He grinned, his eyes spotting a switch by the door. “Yes!” He leapt up, rushing over. “Have you ever seen electricity in motion?” he asked, fingering the switch.

George took a wary step back. “It’s not going to blow up, is it?”

“No, it…” William chuckled. “It’s a bit like a big, fancy candle. Watch.” He flicked the switch.

A light fixture in the ceiling lit up, illuminating the room with a warm, yellow glow.

George watched, cautiously waiting for William to explode. “I don’t like it,” he said, after he was sure nothing would happen. “Sir says electricity is like lightning in a wire, and there’s the old man on the corner of Bathurst who got hit by lightning. He’s got this huge, ugly scar all along here—” he drew a line from the side of his face down to his belly button. “And it looks like tree branches all up and down his skin.”

“Well, there’s significantly more voltage in a bolt of lightning than in an electric wire for a light, George. The risks of electrocution are—” He noticed George’s blank expression. “Never mind.” William moved away from the light switch and looked back into the drawers. He found a small envelope and pulled it out. Peering inside, he blinked. “Come here, look at this.”

“I’d rather stay here, if it’s all the same.”

William pulled out the contents and held them up in the air. “Two train tickets,” he said. “To Montreal on the seventeenth.”

“That was yesterday.” George frowned. “Mr. Brown was trying to leave?”

“It would appear so,” said William, tucking the tickets back in the envelope and pushing the envelope into his pocket.

“You’re _stealing?”_ George bit his lip.

“I’m gathering evidence,” corrected William.

“Is that what you call it?” An unfamiliar voice asked. “I call it trespassing.”

George jumped, dropping his crutch in surprise.

William rose to his feet.

A girl stood in the doorway behind George, her arms folded. She looked about William’s age, with thick, blonde curls pulled into a ponytail. She wore worn boots, a wrinkled, dirty blue dress and a brown cap. Around her shoulders hung a bag containing one folded newspaper. 

George got one glance at her and let out a small yelp, darting into the office to hide behind William. Whoever this girl was, she scared him more than trespassing onto a rich man’s property ever could.

The girl frowned, bending down and picking up George’s fallen crutch. “Crabtree,” she said. “I thought I told you if I caught you hanging around in Kensington again, I’d break your knees.”

George peeked out at her from behind William’s back. “It was his idea, I didn’t want to come.”

William shot him a glare, then looked at the girl. “Who are you?”

She glowered at him, her eyes burning from under her cap. “What, are you stupid or something?”

William kept an even stare.

She snorted, glancing at George. “Where’d you find this moose?” she asked. “I know _you_ found him, because Brackenreid wouldn’t have _touched_ a moron like this unless you begged him.” She leaned on George’s crutch, which was several sizes too short for her. “Julia Ogden,” she introduced herself to William, pulling her cap tighter onto her head.

“William Murdoch.”

“Don’t care,” said Julia Ogden. She gripped the crutch like it was a baseball bat. “You two are trespassing.”

“Why do you care?” asked William. “This isn’t your office.”

Her eyebrows furrowed tighter. “I don’t care about the office,” she said. “You’re trespassing on my territory. Everywhere from Bloor to Queen belongs to me and the rest of the Kensingtons. Go back to St. Lawrence Ward where you belong.”

George nodded vigorously. “And we were just leaving, right?”

William stood his ground. “We haven’t searched the whole room yet.”

Pulling him aside, George cupped a hand around his mouth. “Last time we were around this area of town, she tried to beat me and Sir up with a hammer. You don’t argue with Julia Ogden.”

Julia Ogden folded her arms, glaring. She definitely was the toughest looking girl William had ever seen, but she was also one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen. She was like a tiger, breathtaking to look at, but definitely deadly.

“We’re here because—”

“I don’t care why you’re here,” snapped Julia Ogden. “I want you to get out.”

William folded his arms. “No.”

Julia’s eyes narrowed. “Let me rephrase,” she said. She suddenly lashed forward, grabbing George by the collar and putting him in a headlock. “Get out or he gets it.”

A scuffling noise reached William’s ears, and he froze, his ears perking up. He turned around and around, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

“Wow, you really care about this kid, huh?” Julia tightened her grip on George, making him wince. “I’m serious, you know? I don’t play around.”

“She really doesn’t.” George’s eyes were wide.

William held up a finger. “Stop talking,” he commanded. He shushed their protests. “Someone’s here.”

A small stampede of footsteps barged up the stairs outside.

Paling, Julia dropped George and pulled open a cupboard. “Hide!” she barked, jumping into the cupboard and squeezing into a shelf, closing the door behind herself after tossing George’s crutch on the floor.

William grabbed George in one hand and his crutch in the other and dove behind a curtain just as the doorknob to the office began to turn. Behind the curtain, he pushed the crutch into George’s hands and motioned for him to be quiet.

The door swung open, and four boys stepped in. They were grubby, wearing torn clothes and ragged shoes, empty newspaper sacks slung around their shoulders. They came in all different shapes, colours and sizes, but all of them but one shared the same intimidating stance and brawny exterior. The biggest one was chewing on an unlit cigar, sporting a dark black eye, his shirt pulled tight around his bulging muscles, while the smallest of them was a stooped, skinny shrimp of a lad with a head of messy brown curls.

Beside William, George breathed a small gasp. “The Globes,” he whispered.

William didn’t know what he meant by that, but he didn’t feel like asking and giving away his hiding spot. He peeked around the curtain to watch the scene unfold.

The biggest one shoved the small boy into the office. “C’mon,” he said, speaking around his cigar. “Put the letter down, Lou, we don’t have all day.”

Lou, the small one, stepped in hesitantly, looking at the decadent office like it might swallow him whole. He bit his lip, turning to face the others. “What if someone sees me?” he asks.

“Quicker you do it, the less chance there’ll be of someone seeing you,” pointed out one of the boys. He wore an unbuttoned red vest.

Lou glanced at the floor, shuffling his feet. “But, are we sure this is right? Couldn’t we get in trouble for this?”

“Hey, Loser,” snapped Red Vest, stepping forward and stabbing a threatening finger into Lou’s chest. “You better not be getting cold feet and backing out on us.”

A look of terror flashed in Lou’s eyes. “I’m not! I promise I’m not!”

“Milt’s right.” The big one folded his thick arms. “You just remember where you started out, kid. Without us, you’d still be begging for quarters with those two imbeciles.”

Lou glared hotly. “They’re _not_ imbeciles.”

The big boy ignored him. “Listen, Brain Boy. We’re doing you a big favour here letting you hang around us. You’re getting a lot out of this and we’re not getting that much in return. I’ll remind you, all this can go away in the blink of an eye if you step out of line.” He leaned into Lou’s face. “So unless you’d rather go back to being poor little Llewellyn starving in a gutter with Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, I’d suggest you grow a pair and pull your weight.”

William fought the urge to rush out there and kick all the bigger boys in the groin. The way they treated the smaller boy reminded William of his father; loud and aggressive, using threats to keep him in line. William’s fingers curled into tight fists.

Nodding vigorously, Lou took a deep breath, pulling a sealed envelope out of the pocket of his trousers. He shuffled over to Malcolm Brown’s desk, placed the envelope neatly in the centre of the desk and took a step back. “There,” he said.

Milt, the one in the red vest, smirked, aggressively patting Lou on the back so hard, William could hear the air escaping the boy’s lungs. “Well done,” he said. “We knew you had it in you.”

The fourth boy, a dirty boy who hadn’t said a word the whole time, nodded, playfully punching Lou in the arm.

“Good choice, Louie,” said the big one, wrapping an arm around Lou’s shoulders. “We’re the key to survival on the streets, don’t you forget it. Without us, you’re dead.”

Lou nodded, and the four boys left the office.

Slowly, William, George and Julia Ogden materialized from their hiding spots.

“Who were they?” William wondered aloud.

George shuddered. “The Globes,” he said.

“Globes?”

Julia rolled her eyes. “They sell the Globe,” she said pointedly. “They’re pricks, the lot of them.”

“That little one didn’t seem too bad,” said William.

“Llewellyn Watts,” snarled Julia, like the very name made her gag. “He’s their secret weapon. He’s cute enough to get all the sales and he does everything they tell him to. They could make him murder half the town and the rest of them would get off scot free.”

“So, he’s their scapegoat.”

“Exactly.” Julia tugged on a stray blonde curl. “The Globes can do whatever they want because if they ever get caught, they’ll just blame Little Louie and nothing happens.”

“They run the whole city,” said George, leaning on his crutch.

“What are they doing here?” William moved towards the desk and picked up the envelope that Lou had placed there earlier. He ripped it open and pulled out the contents. “It’s some kind of letter,” he said, unfolding it. “To whom it may concern,” he read. “By the time you read this letter, I will have passed on to the next life.”

“What does that mean?” asked George.

“It means he’s dead, moron,” snapped Julia. “Shut up and let him finish.”

William went on. “This cruel world leaves me with no other option. I leave you as Ophelia, perhaps not a man’s demise, but this man is too much a coward for a manly death. Forgive me for my cowardice.” The writing was slanted and messy, like it had been written very hastily, and William had to squint to read the last line. “In death, I remain, your obedient and most gracious servant, Malcolm James Brown.” He looked up. “It’s a suicide note.”

George blinked with wide eyes. “Malcolm Brown killed himself? He’s dead?”

“People die every day, grow up.” Julia shoved George out of the way and snatched the letter in her hands. She squinted at the letters, examining the note with very thorough scrutiny. “But luckily for you, Crabtree, I don’t think this really is a suicide note.”

“What do you mean?” asked William.

Folding her arms, Julia rolled her eyes. “If you were about to kill yourself, what would you be feeling?”

“I’d be pretty scared,” said George. “Probably sad and angry too.”

“Exactly.” Julia held up the note. “Do you think someone who was feeling all of that would write with perfectly steady calligraphy?”

William took the letter in his hands. “Good point.”

“So, it’s a fake note?” George scratched his head.

William snatched a paper off of the desk and glanced from one page to the other. “The writing’s the same, though,” he said, laying both sheets on the desk. “See here?” He pointed to the first line of the letter. “The capital B is the same as this one.”

George frowned. “So it’s… a real fake note?”

“Malcolm Brown definitely wrote this.” William folded up the paper. “But he didn’t write it before he killed himself.”

“I don’t think he killed himself,” said Julia, frowning. “He never bought any papers from me, but he’s not the kind of man who’d just give up like that.”

“You knew him, then?”

Julia folded her arms. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Get out before I drop kick both of you halfway to Halifax.”

George didn’t have to be told twice, making a beeline to the door. He stared at William in disbelief. “Aren’t you coming?” 

William ignored him. “You could join us, you know,” he said.

George groaned. “You really like cheating death, don’t you?”

Julia glared at him suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘join you?’”

“There’s a two hundred dollar reward for information,” said William. “If we find out the truth, we’d get that money. We could split it with you.”

Julia put her hands on her hips. “If I say yes, you’ll just give me a couple pennies and keep the rest.”

William shook his head. “Fifty-fifty,” he said. “I promise.”

“Well,” said George. “Maybe let’s make it twenty five percent? I mean, I’m getting some, and we have to give some to Sir.”

“Fine.” William held out his hand to Julia. “Twenty five percent. That’s fifty dollars.”

“Why don’t I just go and find out what happened by myself and keep the whole two hundred dollars?” she asked.

“Because you’d need help,” said William. “That’s why we’re asking you. We can’t do it with just the two of us. You know things about Malcolm Brown we don’t, but we know how to solve mysteries. You need us and we need you.”

Pausing, Julia twirled her hair around her finger, deep in thought. She eyed William sharply. "You're only doing this so you can hang around Kensington all you want without worrying about me pushing your head through a wall, aren't you?"

William shrugged. "That might be a factor." He raised his eyebrows. “But I can tell you want to do it.”

She smirked. "Alright," she said. "I'm in, but only because the Globes are clearly part of this, and I'll do anything to see them dethroned." She pushed up her sleeves. “What do you want me to do?”

“Ask the Kensington newsies if they’ve seen anything.”

Julia scoffed. “They’re all a bunch of kids, what do you think they know? You realize the _police_ haven’t been able to figure this out, right?”

William smirked. “That’s because we kids have something the police don’t.”

“What’s that?” asked George.

“No one suspects us of anything. They don’t care what we know and what we don’t know. They’ll tell us anything.”

Julia folded her arms, a grin forming on her face. “You’re smarter than you look,” she said, pulling her cap snug and moving towards the door. “I’ll ask around tomorrow. Meet me on the corner of Yonge and Queen at eight o’clock tomorrow.”

William nodded. “George and I will try and find out everything we can about Malcolm Brown.”

“Good.” Julia stepped out of the door, peeking back in with a smirk. “Now get out of Kensington. Just because I’m not going to beat you up doesn’t mean the others won’t.” With that, she turned and left the office.

“Wow,” said George after he was sure she’d left. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“What?”

George grinned in disbelief and awe, like he’d just watched William do a magic spell. “You just got Julia Ogden to like us.”

“I just got her on the same page as we are,” said William, walking down the stairs. “Everyone wants something, it’s only a matter of getting them to see how helping you can get them where they want.”

Shrugging, George hopped down the staircase. “Well,” he said. “Whatever you did, it was brilliant. C’mon,” he said. “Sir’ll be waiting for us, and you’ve got a lot to explain.”


	4. On the Rooftop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter is just Oops! all fluffy

“Where the bloody hell were you all day?” Brackenreid wanted to know when the boys returned to the station house rooftop that night. “I went to your corner to fake beat one of you up and you weren’t there.”

George smirked. “We went to Kensington,” he said.

Brackenreid’s face reddened, and he waved his arms about in confused anger as he spoke. “What?” he demanded. “Why would you do that? How many times have I told you not to cross into Julia Ogden’s territory? That girl is mental!” He noticed William’s squint and George’s repressed giggles. “What?”

“She’s less insane than you think,” said William.

“She likes us now,” put in George.

Scoffing, Brackenreid folded his arms. “Right,” he said sarcastically. “And I’m the King of Canada.”

William frowned. “Canada doesn’t have a king.”

“Exactly.”

It took quite a while to explain that they were not, in fact, joking about Julia Ogden being their ally, and it took even longer to explain everything about Malcolm Brown, the train tickets and the Globes dropping off a suicide note. Brackenreid butted in at every pause, dropping questions like a bucket with holes in it. “I’m sorry, two  _ hundred?” _ he asked, when they told him about the reward. When they said they entered Malcolm Brown’s office, he just about yelled, “you did  _ what?” _

After they finished their story, Brackenreid sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is mad,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“It isn’t mad,” began William. “The article said anybody could get the reward money.”

“They didn’t mean a grubby bunch of bloody kids from the street!”

William shook his head, jumping to his feet. “Look, it doesn’t matter if we’re kids or not!” he cried. “If we solve this, they’ll have no choice! They made a promise, and they’ll have to keep it.”

Brackenreid stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

William glared hotly, crossing his arms. “I’m serious!”

Chuckling, Brackenreid rolled his eyes. “You’re a bloody idiot,” he said. His laughter subsided, and he pointed a meaty finger in William’s direction. “Listen, Smart Stuff, as far as the world is concerned, we’re nothing.”

George’s eyes met the floor.

Brackenreid continued. “To them, we’re trash dirtying up the streets. No one likes trash out in the open, but no one wants trash anywhere but the streets, got it? They aren’t going to give us anything.”

William’s eyebrows knit together. “That’s wrong,” he said. “We’re people just like the rest of them. They shouldn’t treat us like we’re nothing.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thinking that’s going to get you killed.” Brackenreid folded his arms. “If you want to survive on the street, you keep your head down. You don’t speak out and you take whatever those bloody rich bastards throw your way, and maybe one day they might throw you a bone.”

A chilly breeze blew across the rooftop. George shivered.

“Oi.” Brackenreid pulled him close. “It’s January, Bugalugs. I thought you said you’d find a scarf or something.”

“I’m working on that.” George rested his head against Brackenreid’s ribs. “Nobody throws away a good scarf.”

“A bad scarf is better than no scarf, you little twit.” Brackenreid lifted George’s cap and ruffled his hair.

“Fine.” William let out a breath. “We’re nothing to them. But what if some people are different? Maybe they’d give us the money. Isn’t it worth it to take the chance?”

Brackenreid squinted at him. “That’s a high gamble,” he said. “Let’s say we  _ do _ figure out what happened to that rich bloke. If they don’t give us the money, we’ve wasted all our time. Even if we do get the money, that puts a target on our backs for the rest of our lives. And if the Globes are involved, we’re as good as dead.”

“But, if we had two hundred dollars,” said George, looking up at Brackenreid with big eyes. “We could do whatever we wanted, right? Nobody could touch us cause we’d be rich. We could buy anything we want.”

Brackenreid paused, looking down at him. “It’s not as simple as that,” he said.

George looked down. “Well,” he said. “Do you think I could at least write my book if I had two hundred dollars?”

Brackenreid bit his lip, looking away from George. He sat in silence for several moments, turning it over and over in his head. He sighed, glancing up at William. “You fancy yourself some detective, huh?”

William flushed red.

Eyeing him with a raised eyebrow, Brackenreid stretched his spine out, grabbing the back of his neck with a resigned breath. “Well,” he said. “If I’ve learned anything from living on top of a police station for three years, it’s that every detective needs an inspector to keep them in line.” He shook his head. “If I can’t talk you two out of this, then you need someone to make sure you don’t get into trouble.”

George pretended to be offended. “When have I  _ ever  _ gotten in trouble?” he asked facetiously.

“Oi, don’t get me started.” Brackenreid punched him playfully in the arm. “If you didn’t have me around, you’d be long dead because of all the trouble you get yourself into.”

William smiled.

Brackenreid had fetched them dinner: a squirrel-size loaf of bread with a large flask full of chicken soup, courtesy of Mrs. Whitby, the cook at a big house on Jarvis. Apparently Brackenreid had given her a quarter once so she could catch a cab home at night, and she was so appreciative that she made him dinner every Saturday.

Halfway through the meal, George discovered the apple he’d stolen earlier, as well as the apple core from the one he’d eaten. He held it up. “Want to share?” he asked.

Brackenreid fumbled around in his pockets, pulling out a folded pocket knife. “Here, catch,” he said.

“Aw, can you cut it?”

“Why?”

George smiled. “They always taste better when you cut them.”

Brackenreid rolled his eyes. “Nice try,” he said. “You’ve got to learn how to cut up an apple yourself.” He tossed the knife towards George.

The throw went a bit too long, and George leaned backwards to try to catch it, falling on top of a pillow behind him. He instantly jumped up, his eyes wide with panic, lifting up the pillow to look underneath. He sighed with relief, pulling out a slightly crumpled pile of newspaper. “It’s okay,” he announced. “The book is okay.”

William frowned. “Book?” he asked.

George’s face lit up. He snatched up the pile of papers and slid beside William. “Here,” he said, pushing the stack into William’s lap.

The pages of the newspaper were painted white, the pages hardened and a bit squashed. The paper was filled with doodles and sketches and scribbles, of people, triangular shapes and something that looked like a horse with a gland problem.

“Drawings?” asked William, carefully turning the pages over. Every white space on the pages was covered with drawings. They weren’t particularly well done, but it was clear this was something George had worked very hard on. William was impressed. “You drew all this yourself?”

George nodded. “It’s a story,” he said, taking the papers back into his lap. He turned back to the first page, pointing at the drawing in the top left. “This is the brave explorer,” he explained. “And he’s going into the pyramids to find treasures from Ancient Egypt.” He turned a page. “But when he takes the treasure, it activates a curse, and he has to break the curse before midnight or he’ll be cursed forever.”

As William looked in the pages, the narrative began to jump out at him. The brave explorer finding the treasure, only to awaken a mummy, running away and trying to return the treasure before it’s too late. He’d never seen anything like it before. “It’s incredible,” he said. “Really.”

Brackenreid smirked. “I think it’s a load of rubbish,” he said. “All these mummies and curses and camels. I don’t see why he can’t draw something real.”

“Mummies  _ are _ real,” said George, his face deadly serious. “Higgins told me all about them.”

Brackenreid rolled his eyes. “Henry Higgins is a bloody idiot. I saw him buying papers the other day thinking a nickel was six cents.”

“Well,  _ I  _ think it’s fantastic,” said William.

George blushed. He gently stroked the pages lovingly. “One day,” he said. “It’s going to be a real book.” He stood up and placed it underneath his pillow again. “Sir says I have to learn the ABCs and writing and all first, but once I do, it’ll be a real book.”

William smiled, the pictures still in his mind so vividly. “I think you should keep it just the way it is,” he said. “Everybody’s seen stories in words. No one’s ever seen a story in pictures before.”

George looked so happy he could burst. “You really think so?” he asked.

William nodded. “But, well, if you still want to learn how to write, I can teach you.”

George’s eyes widened, his whole face frozen like he couldn’t believe it. “You mean it?” 

“Of course he means it,” said Brackenreid, glancing at William. He had a smile on his face, but his eyes regarded William sharply, daring him to disagree. “He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it.”

William nodded. Brackenreid didn’t have to shoot him that look; he meant every word.

A slow, overjoyed smile spread on George’s cheeks. “You really think I could learn how to write? You think I’m smart enough?”

“Oi, Bugalugs—” Brackenreid elbowed George in the ribs. “If  _ this _ patsy can write, anybody can.” He jerked a thumb at William with a smirk.

George rubbed the spot where Brackenreid hit him, grinning.

William smiled. “You’re going to be the best author around,” he said. “I’m going to make sure of that. I promise.”

If possible, George’s grin widened. He was practically brimming with joy, and he wasn't hiding it well. His legs swung back and forth and his cheeks glowed pink. He remained happy for the rest of the night until he eventually nodded off to sleep. Even in his sleep, he smiled.

Brackenreid glanced at William from over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have promised that,” he mumbled.

“Why not?”

Sighing, Brackenreid stared down at his hands. He sat there in silence for a while, so still that he could have been a statue. “You can’t promise the impossible,” he said. “Not to Crabtree. He doesn’t believe in the impossible.”

William frowned. “It isn’t impossible,” he said. “George can be whatever he wants to be when he grows up.”

Shaking his head, Brackenreid’s shoulders slumped, his head hanging low. The moonlight caught the tips of his red hair, making them glow white. “He’d be beating the odds if he grows up at all.” He glanced at the sleeping kid, curled up in a thin blanket. “Kids like Crabtree don’t get to dream. If he doesn’t die before he’s seventeen, he’ll go work in a factory somewhere or unload ships at the harbour. He’s got his future set out for him, and there’s nothing any of us can do to change that.”

William’s eyebrows furrowed together. Brackenreid was wrong, and he knew it, but the words to say so dissipated like a foggy breath in the cold air. Anyone could do anything if they worked hard enough, that's what he was always told, by his mother before she died and by his father more recently.

After a barrage of verbal abuse from his father, his mother would stroke William's hair and smile. "Don't let him stop you dreaming, William," she'd say. "The world is built on dreams, and I can't wait to see what you'll contribute."

His father shared a similar sentiment, but with a vastly different tone. "You've got to work hard, Willy," he'd slur between swigs of liquor. "You're the only hope this sad lump of a family's got. You better get rich so you can keep the family above water."

Brackenreid sighed. “Look,” he said, a note of tiredness in his voice. “I’ve seen what happens to kids who dream on the streets, and it’s never pretty. You can’t beg people to treat you fair, or you’ll get your head knocked off of your shoulders.” He took off his brown flat cap, his fingers finding a small hole in the seam. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let that happen to Crabtree.” He glanced at William over his shoulder. “Go to sleep,” he murmured. “We’ve got to be up early.”

“But the paper doesn’t print on Sundays.”

Brackenreid raised an eyebrow. “Who says I was talking about papers? We shine shoes on Sundays.” 

“Oh.”

Smirking, Brackenreid breathed a small chuckle. “And, well, we’ve got to dig up the dirt on that missing investor of yours, right?” He grabbed a sawdust stuffed potato sack, a makeshift pillow, off the ground and flung it into William’s lap.

William took the pillow in his hands and began to set up his bed where he’d been putting it the past few nights, several feet away from the others, out in the open.

“Why do you always sleep so far away?” Brackenreid folded his arms. “You afraid of us or something?”

Flushing bright red, William stumbled over his words. “No, I— I… I’m not—”

Laughing, Brackenreid shook his head. “Oi, relax,” he said, patting the ground beside him.

“Alright,” breathed William, taking his pillow and shuffling over. He sat down on the ground. He wrapped himself in the moth-bitten set of old curtains that they called a blanket. He sucked in an awkward breath.

Brackenreid yawned, lying so that his back was to William. “By the way,” he mumbled. “If you snore, I’m tossing you off the roof.” He breathed a tired chuckle. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”


End file.
